


Unfinished Fic Dump

by starduster



Category: Gintama
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Spoilers up through 570
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starduster/pseuds/starduster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two sets of GinTaka and BanTaka drabbles.  Parts of fics that I either lost steam on or which wound up not really fitting with canon.  Give 'em a read, if you'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. GinTaka - "Aftermath"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abandoned because it wasn't going anywhere and was more self-indulgent than anything.

A lot has changed in ten years. 

It’s understandable, of course.  Life has treated them both very different since the war’s end.  Takasugi is thinner, bonier, his delicate wrist bones looking like you could shatter them if you grasped them too tight.  His hair is longer and it falls over his face perfectly to cover the empty eye socket.  Gintoki’s body is softer now, the product of too many parfaits and too little regular exercise, though the remnants of a soldier’s physique still shine through in places.  He's gotten a little taller, too, and he knows that Takasugi is probably bitter over that.

But there’s still the things that haven’t changed.  Takasugi’s right ring finger and pinkie are slightly crooked where they were once broken during one of their myriad sparring matches and never splinted properly.  Gintoki still snorts when he laughs too hard.  Things aren’t quite so different.

This is the first time in ten years they’ve sat alone together. 

 

The Kihetai – or what’s left of them, the lonesome four – have rented a small old house in this strange new Edo, slowly awaiting the day when everyone's plans will come together, when they'll destroy Edo or the Shogun or Utsuro or whatever the most recent decision was.  Life is almost normal.  Bansai writes his music and meets with Otsuu's executives.  Henpeita lurks about Edo's playgrounds and schoolyards until he's shooed off by the local police.  Matako shops and wanders about the town with new friends and lives like the young woman she never go to be.  And Takasugi stays at home, drifting aimlessly from one room to the next to the garden and back again. 

Gintoki finds him in the garden, sitting on the outer walkway and drawing lazy puffs from his kiseru.  He's wrapped up in his haori despite the summer heat and his eyes are unfocused, staring at some nonexistent point in space.  

"Oi, aren't you hot?"  Gintoki questions lazily, not surprised when Takasugi doesn't turn to look at him. 

The man takes a long drag from his pipe, blowing out a ring and watching it dissipate into the steamy evening air.  "Not necessarily," he says at last, tapping his ash out.  "It's fine."  He doesn't respond when Gintoki settles down next to him, but he does turn and look when he hears the clatter of a sake bottle and a pair of cups being sat down.  His eye raises to meet Gintoki's, and Gintoki can't tell if the look is accusatory and suspicious or simply questioning. 

"For old times' sake," Gintoki offers simply, pouring them each a cup and throwing his own back.  "And no, it's not poisoned."  Takasugi continues to eye him, but lifts the cup to his lips nonetheless, sipping down the wine and savoring the taste silently. 

They don't speak for a long time, lost in the rhythm of pouring and drinking. 

"We're not friends, you know," Takasugi murmurs into his drink.  Gintoki's eyes are drawn to the slight tremble of his cup, the effect of atrophied muscle from so long in the coma. 

Gintoki nods.  "We never were."  But that's a lie, a damn lie, and they both know it.  They were like brothers, even without blood, even if what drew them together were the strange feelings that neither of them acknowledged for so long and a sort of hatred that burned and smoldered throughout the years.  There were words, spoken in quiet darkness by mouths loosened by alcohol (and other things), that suggested their friendship was something else entirely.  They used to finish each other's sentences in between fistfights and scuffles.

But that's gone now, buried with the rest of the war. 

Another long swig of sake.  "Nobody ever said you had to be friends to drink with a guy." 

Takasugi doesn't respond, just stares into the depths of his glass.

Gintoki runs his hand through his hair uncomfortably.  Takasugi's newfound quietness is unsettling.  "Kagura and your Matako are hitting it off, you know," he offers plainly, desperate for some sort of conversation, even if he has to be the one doing all the talking.  "Kagura keeps demanding money so she and her can go off and buy bras or whatever girls buy when they shop together."

He talks, and talks, and talks.  About how Shinpachi fell face-first into a pile of Sadaharu's poop yesterday and how Otose's really getting a mustache and all the strange new places he's been finding Sarutobi recently and about the letter Tae got from Kondo that he just knows she didn't throw out like she said she did.  Out of the corner of his eye he can see Takasugi relaxing, whether it's the talk or the drink he's not sure but it's better than the stoic silence before. 

He lets his fingers creep slowly across the floorboards, and when they brush against Takasugi's soft fingers, the smaller man doesn't draw away.   

 

_(Meant to be after the defeat of Utsuro)_

Snow falls thickly across Edo the following winter.  It's a wet, icy snow, bringing the bustle of city life to a slippery halt.  But Takasugi likes the icy nights, free of the distant honking of car horns and everything else the city spews out. 

But sometimes he'd rather have all that noise drown out what he has to hear inside his head when he dreams. 

With a scream he sits bolt upright, drenched in sweat, heart hammering against his ribs and tears pooling in the corner of his eye.  He can already hear the footsteps coming down the hallway towards him; Bansai, ever loyal, has always checked on him after every nightmare.  When the musician slides the door open a crack and peeks in, Takasugi dismisses him with a nod and a shaky wave of his hand.  Bansai nods politely and the door is closed once again, the footsteps retreating back down the hall.

A glance at the clock shows it's two in the morning.  A meager couple hours of sleep is not enough to really go on, but it's not like he's going to get back to sleep anytime soon anyway.  Slowly pushing himself to his feet, Takasugi dresses in the eerie winter silence, watching through the window as the snow drifts lazily down.  Bundled up, he makes his way through the silent house and slips out into the night.

He's not quite sure where he's headed at first, but his feet carry him anyway, and he knows there's only one person he knows that would be up at this hour, consumed just as he is by nightmares.

Katsura was too kind, too stupid for the war.  He was a deadly warrior, equally skilled with the sword, naginata, and bow, and a tactical genius, but the constant death and carnage took a toll on him.  Katsura made the fatal mistake of not thinking of his enemies as monsters; in Katsura's mind, every Amanto he cut down had an Amanto wife and Amanto children and an Amanto desk job he probably hated but that he had to go to to put Amanto food on the table.  He threw himself into the post-battle fray of medics and supply inventories to drown out the guilt of taking life after life, and if there was one thing Takasugi learned in the war it was that you couldn't just push down those feelings and hope they'd go away. 

Katsura had been a wreck the first time they'd met up after the war.  No word from Gintoki or Sakamoto, and they'd only found each other by chance.  Takasugi had worked as a drifting mercenary, flitting from Joui to Joui, until he'd stumbled across a familiar face (though leaner and more haunted looking) caked in whore's makeup outside an okama bar.  His mind plagued by guilt and hardly able to sleep unless he was blackout drunk, Katsura had made his living by selling his body to johns with a thing for crossdressers, making enough to buy him booze and a bed to crash in.

They'd sat at a bar for hours that night, talking and talking until Katsura wiped off his makeup and followed Takasugi back to the remnants of the Joui, back to something that was familiar and safe.  He came to terms with killing, and whether or not that was a good thing was still up in the air.

So there was a certain uncomfortable kinship between them, one that hadn't died even during the rift between their factions of the Joui.  They'd spoken little since the reunion - in fact, the only person he had really spoken to was Sakamoto.  But if there was one person he could count on to be awake at 2 AM, it was Katsura.

There's a low light burning in one window of Katsura's shabby home.  Takasugi stands at the door for a long moment, fist raised inches from the wood but struck motionless with indecision. The snow drifts down silently around him, starting to collect on his head and shoulders.  What is he so afraid of?

Without warning, the door slides open in front of him, making his decision for him.  There stands Katsura's monster, that duck thing that the other Joui had taken such a shine to.  Elizabeth cocks her head inquisitively, whipping out a sign from wherever the hell she kept them.  _Here to see Katsura?_

Startled, Takasugi nods hesitantly, then follows Elizabeth into the genkan as she heads deeper into the small house.  As he slips out of his boots, soft, nearly imperceptible footsteps before him draw his attention.

Katsura gazes down on him indifferently (though he doesn't take offense; indifference is Katsura's default face), dressed in a simple grey kimono and with his hair tied neatly in a bunch over his shoulder.  Dark circles under his eyes betray his sleeplessness.  Katsura's stoic, tired mask breaks into a small smile.  "Why did I figure it was you knocking on my door at this hour?"

Takasugi can feel the heat rising up his neck.  _This was a dumb idea, why did I do this?_ "I... didn't mean to intrude, I just figured-"

"That I wouldn't be sleeping anyway?  You're not wrong.  Come in, have a drink with me." 

The little main room of the house is plain and neat, just like its human inhabitant.  Katsura's futon, unslept in tonight, has been pushed to one wall, replaced by a shabby kotatsu.  A painted wall scroll hangs on the wall above a well-worn old katana.  Sensei's katana, he realizes as a ball of anxiety knots itself in the pit of his stomach.  No, his mind murmurs, don't call him sensei anymore.  "You kept it? Sen--Shouyo's sword?" he questions quietly as he settles beneath the heavy comforter of the kotatsu.

Katsura smiles sadly.  "Yes.  Gintoki said there was no way he could keep it, given... well, you know.  Shouyo was good to us, a saint, despite everything that happened.  We have to remember that.  _Shouyo_ was a good man."  His voice is firm, but it almost sounds more like he's trying to convince himself more than Takasugi.  Elizabeth enters the room with a tray of unfamiliar tea.  It's dark red, smells like some kind of foreign berries.  Takasugi eyes it suspiciously.  "A specialty of Elizabeth's," Katsura explains delicately, sipping the pungent tea.  "It'll help you relax." 

The tea is delicious, much better than he would have ever expected.  After a short moment of deliberation he nods in thanks to Elizabeth, who politely nods back and leaves the room. 

"We haven't gotten the chance to talk much since you came, have we?" Katsura asks politely, and if he's uncomfortable with Takasugi's sullen presence at his home, he's not showing it.

 _We've had plenty of chances, we just **haven't**_ , Takasugi thinks, but swallows down such bitter words.  "No, we haven't," he replies instead. 

"And how are you finding Edo? Is it to your liking?"

"It is."

The small talk is driving him insane.  He didn't come to discuss the niceties of the city.  In hindsight, he's not sure why he came at all. 

"Do you still have nightmares, Takasugi?"  The words hit him like an arrow striking a target.  He chokes on his tea, sputters a bit into his hand. 

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, pointedly ignoring Katsura's piercing gaze.  "How obvious is it?"

Katsura laughs quietly and takes another sip of his tea.  "You show up at my house at two in the morning, with a bag under your eye like you haven't slept properly in years.  You show up at my house knowing I haven't slept either."

Takasugi doesn't say anything, just stares into the rosy depths of the teacup.

"It's alright, you know, to have those nightmares.  It shows that you're still human.  I'd be more concerned if you weren't having nightmares after all we went through.  Gintoki and Tatsuma both get them still, from time to time."  He drains his teacup and sets it quietly on the table, folding his hands delicately in his lap.  "I know a doctor who can prescribe you something for it."

Even after all these years, after all the godawful things Takasugi has done to him, Katsura is still painfully kind, like a mother tending to a criminal child who she still has to love.  There was that awful _we_ in there, that reminder that Katsura is still his brother-in-arms, all of them still are, and that he's done such terrible things to them and yet they're still there, waiting patiently for him to come around.

 

He doesn't go home that night.  He trudges through snow-clogged streets to little two-story building that houses the Yorozuya, nodding politely to the snack house's robot girl as she shuts off the sign and brings it in to the restaurant.  "Is Gintoki in?" he asks, immediately realizing what a dumb question it was.  It's nearly three in the morning, where else would he be?

The girl nods.  "Gintoki-sama is in the bar, presently.  He said he could not sleep and is currently abusing his bar tab."  She pushes the door open with her shoulder and holds it for him.  "You are welcome to join him, as I am sure Otose-sama would not mind the extra business."

Does he look like he needs a drink that badly?  Nevertheless he hesitates.  What kind of creep must he look like, showing at up Gintoki's home in the wee hours of the morning?

"Well, if it isn't Takasugi at three in the morning," comes the lazy drawl from inside, and it's the last bit of encouragement Takasugi needs to step over the threshold.  Gintoki sits at the bar wrapped in his kimono, nursing a beer.  The rest of the restaurant is empty, and even the landlady and the cat-eared barmaid have already retired for the night.  Gintoki pats the barstool next to him invitingly, and Takasugi hesitantly seats himself there.  He fishes his kiseru out of his kimono and accepts the offered light from the robot. 

Gintoki sighs, taking a long swig of his beer.  "Every time we meet now you act like I'm going to bite your head off.  Since when were you such a pussy, ah?  You used to be hot shit when we were in the War."

Irritation briefly flares through him, but Gintoki has a point.  Everything that's happened in the years since he fled the battlefield has worn him down, broken the backbone he'd worked so hard to keep up, and Shouyo -no, _Utsuro_ , he must remind himself again- was the final straw. 

 

They talk for what feels like hours before Gintoki decides to risk it.

“Why don’t you stay here for the night? The damn snow’s gotta be at least a meter deep, and Kagura’s at Shinpachi’s tonight, so…”  Instantly he realizes what he must sound like he’s implying, and it’s most definitely NOT what he wanted.  Sure, they had a history of sorts.  Sure, there was a secret rendezvous here and there during the campaigns, motivated by stress and raging hormones and grief, but that was then and they were dumb teenagers, and he doesn’t need to bring those little moments back to the forefront (despite how many times he may have used the grainy memories as fuel for particularly lonely nights).  “A-ah, but I don’t mean—“

“Sure,” comes the simple, curt response, and Takasugi’s already on his feet and heading for the door, trailing pungent smoke behind him. 

The shock hits him like a freight train, and suddenly he’s realizing that he never really intended for Takasugi to agree to this in the first place.  They’ve been practically mortal enemies for the past several years, and now there’s a tentative peace and Takasugi has no reason to be awful anymore.  Has forgiveness come _that_ fast?

The moment the door to Gintoki’s apartment closes behind them he’s being slammed into the wall by bony hands and there’s a bony knee jamming between his legs as lips crash against his own.  Takasugi’s desperation is palpable but this isn’t right, the whole thing feels off-kilter and wrong.

“Takasugi, stop it, what are—“

 “Goddamnit, shut up, just—“Takasugi’s fingers are scrabbling at Gintoki’s obi, tugging the fabric away and yanking at the kimono.  “I just need—“

“ _Slow down,_ ” Gintoki hisses, shoving Takasugi at arm’s length, trying to ignore his own growing arousal.  “I’m not going to stop you, but shit, let’s at least not do this at the front door.”

Somehow they make their way to Gintoki’s room and in record time clothes are off and Gintoki’s pinned to the floor.  There’s no intimacy, just desperation, and Gintoki can’t fathom what’s going through Takasugi’s head.  Something is most certainly wrong. But there’s a time and place to worry about these things, and it’s not when your long-lost fuck buddy is finally about to ride you again.

Takasugi's legs squeeze his hips as he pushes himself down, his teeth gritted against the pain, eyes closed in concentration as he starts to move.  His grip on Gintoki's arms doesn't falter.

"H-hey," Gintoki grits out, torn between wanting to flip Takasugi over and fuck him into the floorboards or to pull him off him and wrap him in a blanket.  "Slow down, you're gonna tear."

"Shut up," Takasugi hisses, his movements slow but purposeful, an agonizing squirming dance in Gintoki's lap that drives them both crazy but is getting both of them nowhere. "Just let me have this, goddamnit."  It's too tight, unpleasantly so, and dry for Gintoki to get anything but painful friction, and he's got no doubt that it's equally torturous for Takasugi.  He's gone soft from the pain, and his fingers are gripping bruises into Gintoki's upper arms.

Gintoki struggles beneath him.  "At least let me get you some lube or something, then you can do all you want," he pleads, finally succeeding in wrenching one arm out of Takasugi's grasp.  There's a bottle of lubricant tucked into the box of tissues nearby, though it hasn't been used with someone in god knows how long, and he strains and reaches and finally retrieves it.  Takasugi's pace has slowed to hardly that of a snail, and his eye is cracked open as he watches Gintoki, tears welling up in the corner, both from frustration and searing pain. 

Wordlessly he bends down and tucks himself against Gintoki, surrounding Gintoki's head with his arms and lifting his hips enough to shift Gintoki out of him.  Working around the smaller body now smothering him, Gintoki squirts out a liberal amount of lube in his palm and reaches down to slick himself up and to work a few slippery fingers into Takasugi's hole.  Sure enough Gintoki's fingers come out with a smear of red on them, but it's too late to worry about that now.  When he finally replaces his fingers with his cock again, Takasugi whimpers in his ear and tucks his face into the crook of Gintoki's neck. 

They move slowly together, a slick slide of skin on skin, the silence in the air only broken by soft breathing and the wet whisper of their bodies coming together.  Gintoki's arms wrap around the body atop him and hold him tight, though he can't find the courage to summon up any words.  Takasugi's breath comes in rapid pants against his neck as he thrusts his hips down to meet each upward movement of Gintoki's, and his cock rubs against the furrows of Gintoki's abdomen, dripping precome and sweat.   

Gintoki turns his head enough to press a kiss to the crown of Takasugi's head, desperate for something, anything, some sort of sign that will show him that Takasugi is here and not replaying some awful memory over and over again like a broken record player stuck inside his head.  Takasugi's response comes in the form of fingers clenching in curly white locks and the faintest brush of lips against his neck, and it's all Gintoki needs. 

Their climax builds slowly, lazily, and when Takasugi finally tenses up against him and a wet heat spreads between their bellies, Gintoki sighs quietly against dark purple hair and allows himself to come as well, still buried in Takasugi.

They lay together for a long time, Gintoki's hands trailing the pale, scarred, sweaty skin of Takasugi's back, and Takasugi trembles in his arms.  He sighs shakily when Gintoki's softening cock slips out of him, wincing at the air on his gaping, torn flesh.  Eventually he's gathered up in strong arms and carried the short distance to the futon, and he doesn't protest when Gintoki cleans him off gently, so gently, and climbs into the futon beside him.  When their eyes finally meet Gintoki smiles, a small, cherished thing, and Takasugi, with tears drying on his cheeks, reaches over and pulls him close for a soft, chaste kiss.

When he wakes in the morning Takasugi is gone.  The other side of the futon houses the lingering warmth of a body and the ashtray beside the bed holds the cooling embers from a kiseru.

 

The second time they find themselves in bed with each other is more comfortable, sprawled on a big bed in a hotel one rainy afternoon with plenty of time to spare and minds unmuddled by alcohol.  In hindsight Takasugi is not really sure why he’d agreed to it, a quiet suggestion after a meeting between Katsura’s Joui and Takasugi’s kihetai with Gintoki as a bored mediator between the two parties.  It had been little more than a simple, non-sexual, _you wanna go somewhere after this?_ And the implication was clearly there, and Takasugi had said _as long as you’re paying_ and then they wound up tangled together in a hotel bed.

Without the floodgates of grief and repressed anger and emotion being cracked and forced aside like they had been the first time Takasugi finds himself more comfortable under Gintoki’s hands, more willing to lay back and let the idiot take care of _him_ instead of the other way around.  He’s more open to the languid kisses they share before clothes are shed and tossed on the floor, and he smiles against Gintoki’s lips when their hips finally brush together.

“Why are we doing this?” he murmurs, but his hands are already stripping off Gintoki’s shirt, sliding over his skin, tracing the scars, new and old, that litter his skin. 

“I dunno,” Gintoki says against his collarbone as he kisses his way down Takasugi’s neck.  “Why’d we ever do it during the war?”

Takasugi’s hands still and he gazes at Gintoki thoughtfully.  Gintoki peers back at him, dead-fish eyes inquisitive.  “We were lonely,” Takasugi says flatly.

“Then maybe we’re lonely now,” Gintoki says, resuming his journey down Takasugi’s body, pushing the kimono off his shoulders and working at the knot of the obi.

Takasugi suspects it might be something more than that, though he’s not sure he wants to put a name to it (yet).

 

Gintoki doesn’t snore as loud as he did during the war, and that’s a blessing.  Takasugi remembers one night when he and Sakamoto were on watch and kept track of how long Gintoki would go between breaths, lengths that were sometimes shocking (and that once made them wonder if he’d actually just died in his sleep). 

Now his snores are quieter, dare we say almost cute.  Takasugi watches him as he sleeps, watching the rise and fall of his chest and listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.  Though his body is worn out from sex and the warmth of Gintoki’s body beside him is dragging him deeper into relaxation, he can’t manage to sleep.

His eyes roam over the scars that cover Gintoki’s body, and he tries to catalogue the ones he remembers from the war.  Several of them he remembers inflicting himself, between their frequent skirmishes and the few encounters they had between the end of the war and by the time everything went to absolute shit with the appearance of Utsuro.

 _Gintoki is not ashamed of his scars,_ he thinks, and for the millionth time since the injury occurred his hand strays up to touch his eye.  Under the bandages his eyeball is crushed, and his eyelids hang oddly over the misshapen orb, held together with a line of neat stiches.  There’s no external scarring, and if there’s one thing he must thank Oboro for it was his impeccable aim when he stabbed him in the eye.  _I was not so kind,_ he thinks with a small smile. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he sits up, careful not to jostle Gintoki, and reaches back to the knot that holds the bandages tight.  The cloth unwinds into his hands, and he sets the neat pile on the bedside table.  Gintoki has never seen his eye (or lack thereof) clearly since he lost it, and it’s forever been hidden beneath bandages and hair.  Maybe now is the time. 

He settles back against Gintoki’s side and closes his eye.

 

Ordinarily, Gintoki is a lazy lover.  In the past he’s been more than content to lay back and let his partner do all the work.  Until he’d reunited with Takasugi he’d never had a dick in his mouth in his life.  He’d let his partners prepare themselves, more than happy to sit and watch the proceedings.

Everything is so, so different now with a partner who’s so goddamn _sensitive._  Every drag of his fingers across Takasugi’s skin in the heat of the moment is enough to elicit breathy little moans and gasps, every touch of his fingertips on certain needy anatomy is enough to make Takasugi lose his mind.

And the blowjobs.  _Oh,_ the blowjobs.

Fingers tangling in his hair, Takasugi curling in on himself, whimpers falling on Gintoki’s ears as he lavishes all the attention he can on the man.  He’s all harsh breathing and whimpers until the end, when his breath catches in his throat and he comes in Gintoki’s mouth or on his face or wherever’s convenient.  Then he’ll watch, mesmerized, as Gintoki swallows it down or licks it off his face, and moan into his mouth when he can taste himself on Gintoki’s tongue when they kiss.

He’s found that he almost likes watching Takasugi’s reactions more than he likes the act itself. 

He likes the way Takasugi’s brow furrows and he bites his lip when Gintoki first pushes in, how his fingers often find their way down there and guide it in.  He likes how Takasugi struggles to keep quiet (a throwback to when they were young and did these sort of things in flimsy tents and behind stables), biting his fist or the pillow or his sleeve.  He loves how Takasugi shivers and squirms and moans when Gintoki comes inside of him, then bitches and grouches about how he’s going to have to clean it out.

Takasugi isn’t much of a cuddler afterwards, and if Gintoki had his way that’d be different.  Takasugi is good for an embrace and a kiss after the act, and on a good night he’ll tolerate Gintoki spooning up behind him.  But mostly he sleeps curled up on his side of the futon.  Gintoki likes to watch Takasugi as he sleeps because he looks so _goddamn grumpy_ , like he’d kick a puppy on the street if it got in his way.  He furrows his brows and almost pouts, scowling at some imaginary enemy, and sometimes Gintoki will reach out and smooth out the irritation with his fingers only for it to come back in an instant.  Takasugi, it seems, is determined to be a mean-looking sleeper.

He’s also learned that many of his friends and acquaintances are much keener than he initially thought them to be.  Shinpachi caught on to the relationship the morning after the two had their first night back together, when he smelled the hardly-there smell of the kiseru’s long-gone smoke and had asked, quite bluntly, “Did you have Takasugi-san here last night, Gin-san?”  And of course he’d sputtered and denied it, and Shinpachi just smiled that _sure you did_ smile and gone about cleaning up as usual. 

Katsura had mentioned it in passing after a few months of being together, commenting casually on how even during the war Takasugi had always been in better moods the mornings after he and Gintoki had secretly slept together.  And of course the stupid wighead couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut, and not a month later he was getting weird pornos sent to him in the mail with the seal of the Kaientai on it, with little notes like _you should try this with Takasugi ah ha ha ha ha_ attached. 

 

Gintoki won’t stop yawning.

“Why don’t you just sleep?” Takasugi grumbles, wriggling out of reach of Gintoki’s cold toes as they try to skirt up and down his calves. 

“Lay me out a futon, then.”  Gintoki sprawls a bit further on the floor, one pale hand sneaking for the slit of Takasugi’s kimono but he’s too slow, and once again his lover is out of reach.

Scooting further away from Gintoki’s invading extremities, Takasugi scowls and goes back to his novel.  “You know where I keep the futons at, get one yourself.”

“Go fuck yourself,” comes the grouchy reply, but at this point Takasugi knows there’s no heat behind it.  Eventually (and with much exaggerated moaning and groaning) Gintoki hauls himself to his feet and trudges to the closet, yanking out the plush futon and spreading it in the middle of the room.  Takasugi ignores him for a couple of minutes, but the silence is starting to get unnerving.  He peers over the top of his book, greeted by the sight of Gintoki eying him longingly from under the covers.  The heavy comforter is lifted invitingly, accompanied by a ridiculous wiggling of Gintoki’s eyebrows.

Takasugi rolls his eye but places his book delicately to the side nonetheless.  Gintoki grins triumphantly.  Takasugi slips into the futon beside him and Gintoki spoons up behind him, one arm snaking around his waist.  “If you wind up poking me in the back with your dick I’m going to cut it off.”

Gintoki snorts, laughing quietly into Takasugi’s hair.  “Why don’t you speak that sweetly to me all the time?”  He sighs, a contented, sleepy noise.  “Nah, I’m happy just like this.”

The mild perfume of spring flowers wafts in through the open doors and the deer-chaser clacks serenely in the garden.  There’s faint birdsong and the distant rabble of city noise.  Gintoki is snoring softly into the crown of Takasugi’s head, and his arm is a heavy, protective weight holding him down to earth.  For once in his life he feels safe, and lets the waves of sleep lap over him.

 


	2. BanTaka - "Untitled"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abandoned because it became canon-divergent and pointless, but god damn this ship needs more love.

The first time it happens comes as a complete surprise. 

Bansai’s sitting in his own room, music pounding through his headphones as his pencil scratches rapidly across the pages of tablature spread on the desk in front of him as snippets of melodies flit in and out of his head.  From time to time he sheds the headphones and trades them for his shamisen, plucking out notes and scribbling down changes.  It’s a familiar routine, one that soothes him more than he likes to admit. 

Takasugi finds him during one of these quiet instances, the silence only broken by the sweet sound of the shamisen.  Bansai doesn’t turn from his music when he hears the door slide open then closed, nor when he hears soft footsteps pad across the tatami.  He does react, however, when warm, calloused hands slip around his neck and start to slither down his chest.

In an instant his sword is at his attacker’s neck as the shamisen is roughly discarded, and he spins quickly and takes the man behind him down to the mats.  A thin line of blood runs down a pale neck below his blade before Bansai realizes who’s attacking him.

“My, my.  On edge tonight, hoh?”  Takasugi’s solitary olive-green eye gazes boredly up at Bansai, and Bansai swallows down his mounting dread.  He can smell the stench of alcohol above the scent of hashish and opium in Takasugi’s breath, and that worries him more than anything.  Takasugi swats the sword away carelessly, hardly noticing when the blade slices his palm shallowly.  Bansai sits back on his heels as Takasugi sits up, but Takasugi quickly turns the tables and slams him down on the tatami mats, knocking the sword from Bansai’s hand as he pins his wrists to the floor. 

Grunting as the wind’s knocked out of him, Bansai twists against Takasugi’s grip.  Takasugi is far stronger than his gaunt, almost emaciated appearance would suggest, and his drunkenness makes him that much more tenacious. 

Takasugi grinds his knee clumsily into Bansai’s crotch as he dips down to drag his tongue down the length of Bansai’s neck.  “Don’t struggle,” he slurs out, plopping down to straddle Bansai’s hips as his fingers fumble at the buttons of the musician’s shirt.  “I want to fuck _you_ , not a dead body.” 

Swallowing nervously, Bansai shifts uncomfortably as Takasugi’s bony hips grind into him.  “Shinsuke-dono, there are plenty of women in Yoshiwara who would be happy to service you.”

“Yes, but I don’t have to _pay_ for _you_ to fuck me,” Takasugi growls with a scoff, letting a hand stray behind him to fondle the rather prominent tent in Bansai’s pants.  He giggles drunkly, swaying on his perch.  “Of course, you don’t _have_ to pay a whore for her to fuck you, but that’s not exactly nice, is it?”  His expression turns dark as he bends down, lips a few scant centimeters from Bansai’s, the smell of sake stinging across Bansai’s face.  “You’re my subordinate, you’ll fuck me good and hard when I tell you to.”

_This is a bad situation_ , Bansai’s conscience whispers to him as Takasugi closes the distance between them.  _You probably shouldn’t do this,_ it hisses as Bansai hooks his leg around Takasugi’s and rolls them roughly over, giving him a better angle to grind down and kiss him roughly.  _You’re making a big mistake_ , it mutters as his hands slide Takasugi’s kimono from his shoulders.

He’s never been with a man before, though he figures it can’t be much different from being with a woman.  As Takasugi’s legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer, as he tangles his fist in Takasugi’s hair and pulls hard, as Takasugi moans and cries beneath him as he pounds mercilessly into him, he figures there’s a first time for everything.

 

To his surprise, Takasugi does not move away from him when they’ve finished. In the sticky, post-coital heat the two of them lie together, chest-to-chest, as Bansai’s fingers play idly across the sweaty plane of Takasugi’s back.  Takasugi’s face is tucked into the curve of Bansai’s neck and hot puffs of breath tickle his skin.  His breath is evening out, and for a long time Bansai thinks he’s fallen asleep.  But then lips press gently to his neck and Takasugi wriggles lazily out of his arms, stretching sinuously as he sits up.  His hand lifts to his face, and he gingerly touches the bandages that are hanging loosely over his damaged eye, having shifted about and come undone as Bansai had fucked him into the floor.

Bansai props himself up on an elbow and watches curiously as Takasugi, facing away from him, carefully unwinds the bandages and lets them drop to the floor in a neat pile.  Even from where he’s sitting it’s clear how much damage was done, as the raised scars stretch nearly to his ear.

Takasugi raises up on wobbly legs and makes his way to the dresser, where he retrieves a clean bandage from a drawer full of spare medical supplies and turns back towards Bansai.   As he walks Bansai looks at the empty, scarred socket, the lids held together with neat stitches, the scars numerous.

“Shall I rewrap it for you?” Bansai questions quietly, sitting up as Takasugi sits down beside him.  Takasugi wordlessly hands him the bandage and Bansai moves to sit behind him.  They sit in an easy silence as Bansai wraps the bandage tightly, tying it neatly and lifting Takasugi’s hair over the wrap.  Takasugi’s shoulders are slumped in relaxation and he looks like he might be falling asleep.  He’s never seen Takasugi look this way, sleepy and sedated and without the manic glow in his eyes.  

As he pushes himself to his feet, Bansai’s hand brushes Takasugi’s shoulder tenderly.  Before he can react Takasugi’s thin fingers have clenched around his wrist, holding him fast.

“This is your room, yet you’re leaving.”

“I thought you would want me to.”

Takasugi says nothing, and his grip on Bansai’s wrist does not yield.  Bansai smiles faintly, amused by his master’s sudden, subtle shyness.  So he sits back down beside him, slipping back under the heavy comforter of the futon.  Takasugi snuggles up wordlessly against him, tucking his face back into Bansai’s neck and letting his arms encircle his waist.  Bansai laughs quietly, presses a soft kiss to the top of Takasugi’s head.

“You could have just asked, Takasugi-dono,” Bansai teases, “or would your pride not allow it?”

Takasugi makes a small, annoyed noise.  “You’re irritating.”

 

Takasugi Shinsuke is a lonely person.  He doesn’t let anyone close, close enough to feel his pain or share his burdens.  The only company he allows to breach any of his barriers are the Kiheitai, and even then Okada, Kijima, and Takechi are not welcome in his innermost circle. 

Bansai wonders why he is different.

 

The second time comes on a rainy summer afternoon.  A typhoon is pummeling Edo, and the Kiheitai have had no choice but to drop anchor in the harbor and wait out the storm.  Takasugi haunts the halls, too restless to sit and make plans for when the rain clears.  Eventually he wanders into Bansai’s room, where the musician sits restringing his shamisen. 

Bansai looks up at the sound of the door sliding open, and smiles when he sees Takasugi’s sour expression.  “To what do I owe the honor of your company, Takasugi-dono?”

Takasugi scowls.  “You’re irritating,” he insists as usual, striding over to Bansai and lifting the shamisen out of his hands, settling it neatly against the wall.  He deposits himself in Bansai’s lap and strings his arms around Bansai’s neck.  “Entertain me,” he mutters.  “This rain is upsetting.”

_And so here we are again_ , Bansai thinks as he skims his fingers up Takasugi’s sides, delighting in the delicate shudder that wracks his master’s body.  Takasugi kisses him hard as his fingers work to unbutton Bansai’s jacket, pushing the stubborn fabric off of his shoulders. 

 

In an old chest Bansai finds an old kimono that will fit him and dons it, knowing that Takasugi is tiredly awaiting his return.  But a part of his mind nags him that if the Kiheitai were to be ambushed at this very moment he’d rather not be wielding his blade stark naked.  Takasugi wouldn’t care.  He knows he wouldn’t.  Takasugi would take advantage of it, using his enemies’ moment of shock to cut them down and step over their corpses to the next stunned victim. 

When he turns back to his partner he finds himself greeted by Takasugi’s lazy green eye only a couple feet from him, the man standing with the comforter wrapped about him in some mimicry of modesty.  Takasugi tilts his head curiously, though the droop of his eye betrays how sleepy he really is.  “That scar on your back,” he murmurs, “where did you get it?”

Bansai raises an eyebrow.  “What, the long one? That was when Shiroyasha-“ he doesn’t’ miss the way Takasugi tenses at the sound of the name, “-pulled down my helicopter during that fiasco with the Shinsengumi.  It cut me quite cleanly, but it still scarred.”  He bends down a bit and kisses the tension from Takasugi, a fleeting feeling of victory running through him when he feels Takasugi relax.  When he draws away Takasugi doesn’t meet his gaze, his own eye scanning the scars that litter Bansai’s chest. 

“These,” he says, reaching out and tracing his fingers slowly along the discolored lines, “did you also get these while in my service?”

_Is he feeling guilty?_

“A few of them, yes,” Bansai answers.  “But most of them were from long before I met you.”  He reaches out and brushes a few unruly dark strands behind Takasugi’s ear.  “Shall we go to bed?” Perhaps it would be better to avoid the subject. 

Takasugi nods, turning and heading back for the futon.  He tosses the comforter back down and slips beneath it, scooching over as Bansai joins him.  He takes up his customary position against Bansai’s side with his head on the musician’s chest, an arm flung over his torso.  Bansai’s arm slips beneath him and curls against his back, his fingers drawing abstract figures across the soft skin. 

Takasugi’s fingers find their previous target.

Bansai sighs.  “You needn’t feel guilty, Shinsuke-dono. I am more than happy to receive these scars for you.” He lifts a hand and rests it on top of Takasugi’s own wandering one, stilling it. 

“I don’t feel guilty.”  Takasugi nuzzles closer.  His hand twitches minutely, then slowly his fingers curl around Bansai’s.  Bansai takes the hint, lacing their fingers together.  He doesn’t think he should say anything.  To see such a vulnerable side of Takasugi Shinsuke is a moment to be savored in silence.

 

Some nights he can hear Takasugi screaming from clear across the ship.  The night terrors strike every week or so, wrenching Takasugi from the present and flinging him back to the War, forcing him to relive over and over the death of his teacher, the loss of his eye, his spiraling descent into his madness. 

The first time he seeks to soothe Takasugi during an episode comes after their second meeting.  The shrieking yanks him from his sleep, the screaming cry of, “ _Sensei! Please!”_   Bansai moves on silent feet across the ship, pulling his kimono tighter around him in the nighttime chill.  Takasugi’s screaming cuts off abruptly with a final shriek, followed by pounding footsteps inside his room. 

When he opens the door he finds the room empty, the comforter thrown from the sweat-dampened futon.  The door to the bathroom stands wide open, light blazing from inside, and he can hear the sound of retching.  Takasugi is bowed over the toilet, hands gripping the edges white-knuckled, bile dripping from his lips.  His yukata is soaked through with sweat and tears run down his cheek.

“Shinsuke.”  Bansai speaks softly but Takasugi jumps at the sound of his voice, scrambling back from the toilet and retreating against the wall.  His eye slowly focuses on Bansai.

“B-Bansai,” he whispers hoarsely, lifting slowly to his feet, trembling.  Without a word Bansai moves forward and encircles the man in his arms, and Takasugi’s arms wrap weakly around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his kimono.

He holds Takasugi tight against him, feeling his tremors slowly subside and his breathing even out from wracking sobs.  Takasugi’s fingers are clenching against Bansai’s back, and he shudders when Bansai moves slightly.  “Stay with me,” he whispers abruptly, arms tightening around his partner.  “Please, please, don’t go.”

Bansai ruffles Takasugi’s hair affectionately.  “I’m not going to leave you,” he whispers into the crown of the man’s head.  “I was going to run the shower.  You shouldn’t go back to bed soaked in sweat like this.” 

Takasugi nods haltingly against his chest, reluctantly pulling back when Bansai moves again for the tap.  He undresses with shaky hands, fumbling with his obi until Bansai comes to help him.  Bansai has never seen him this helpless and so willing to be helped.  Any other time Takasugi would rebuff any offer of assistance, but now he’s a completely changed man. 

They stand together under the spray of the water until it runs cold, Bansai gently washing the sweat from his partner’s body, Takasugi pliant under his hands and silent.  He can feel Takasugi starting to relax while he’s washing his hair, can see it in the slump of his shoulders and hear it in the soft sigh that falls from his lips.  Hesitantly Bansai touches the soaked bandages hanging loosely across Takasugi’s mutilated left eye, and when Takasugi nods slowly, tiredly, he slides them off.  There’s a certain intimacy in being allowed such an act. 

Takasugi shivers when Bansai shuts off the water, but he’s no longer practically catatonic.  He moves for a towel on his own and tosses one to Bansai, and washes his mouth out at the sink while Bansai dries himself off and dons his kimono.  As Takasugi towels the water out of his hair, Bansai moves about the bedroom, shoving the damp futon to the side and retrieving a spare from the closet.  Soft footsteps announce Takasugi’s presence behind him, as does the gentle tug of Takasugi’s fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. 

He’s forgone his bandage, the ravaged, empty socket stark and bare against his pale skin.  His remaining eye is red and puffy from crying, and he’s white as a sheet from vomiting.  Bansai rests a hand comfortingly on his cheek, and Takasugi closes his eye and turns his cheek slightly into Bansai’s palm.  He steps closer and lets Bansai’s arms wrap tightly around him once again. 

“It’s alright, Shinsuke,” Bansai whispers into his hair, “you’re alright.”

Takasugi tucks his face against Bansai’s collarbone and sniffles pitifully.  This is not the Takasugi he knows (and loves?).  It’s hardly a shade of the man, the fearless leader the Kihetai both admires and fears, the man whose name strikes fear into the good people of Edo.  It’s not a side of Takasugi he can bear to see for long. 

Pracitically able to feel the exhaustion coming off the smaller man, Bansai gathers him up in his arms and together they burrow under the futon.  Takasugi sighs, but it’s not an unhappy sigh.  “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” _I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t._ He runs his fingers tenderly through Takasugi’s damp hair, smiling to himself when Takasugi wriggles closer.  “Good night,” he says, kissing the crown of the man’s head.  “Try and get some rest.”

Takasugi makes a noise that sounds almost like ‘thank you.’

 

He won’t admit it, neither of them will, but their relationship has developed a new level of intimacy.

He’s come to treasure their little rendezvous, infrequent as they may be.  There’s no rhyme or reason to when Takasugi seeks him out.  They can go weeks without a meeting, but sometimes they’ll go three or four times a week.  And aside from the sex Takasugi will often come to him simply for companionship, content to sit beside him in his quarters and smoke, eye lazily trailing over whatever book or sheet music or document Bansai happens to be reading. 

As cliché as it may be, these are Bansai’s favorite times, sitting in the quiet of a warm summer evening with a book in his lap and his master at his side, the smoke from the kiseru filling the room with its overpowering scent.  Or when he hears his door slide open in the middle of the night and he sluggishly slides to one side of the futon so Takasugi can crawl wordlessly in beside him, and from the dampness of sweat on Takasugi’s skin and the furious hammering of his heart against his ribcage Bansai can tell he’s had another night terror and won’t sleep the rest of the night if he’s by himself.   

 

 

Takasugi’s fingers clutch the futon white-knuckled as Bansai pounds into him, a constant litany of swears and oaths falling from his mouth.  Bansai’s hand tangles in Takasugi’s hair and yanks his head back, exposing his neck for a bite.  Takasugi hisses out a strangled moan, back arching in pleasure.  “A-ah, Bansai, I’m going to come—“

“Then come for me,” Bansai murmurs sweetly into Takasugi’s ear, letting his tongue trace the curve.  Takasugi tenses around him, spasming as he climaxes, cum splattering the futon below him.  Breathing hard, he rests his head against his forearms as Bansai straightens up behind him, fucking him with a renewed vigor.  “Just a moment longer, Shinsuke.”

When he finally comes inside of him Takasugi breathes out a low moan, wincing when Bansai pulls out.  Bansai runs his hand soothingly across Takasugi’s back, moving to his side and helping him roll over onto his back on the futon.  It’s soiled but Takasugi lays down gratefully, reaching out a hand, beckoning to his partner.  Bansai takes his hand and presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles before standing and crossing the room to the bathroom.  He wets a washcloth and returns to his sleepy lover, wiping him down with gentle strokes as Takasugi’s breath evens out and his body goes lax and docile.  When he joins him under the comforter Takasugi snuggles up against him as usual, letting their shared body heat lull them nearly to sleep.

Eventually Takasugi’s voice breaks through the silence.

“What was your childhood like?”

An odd question, coming from a man who is trying to destroy his past.  Bansai yawns, almost irritated that he’s been dragged from the precipice of slumber.  “Normal,” he says, letting his fingers wander through Takasugi’s hair.  “I lived with my mother and father and sisters until the Amanto came, and then my father went off to war and never came back.  My mother taught me the shamisen and I became a musician. My grandfather taught me the sword and I became a killer.” He sighs and pulls Takasugi a little closer, decides to dig a little.  “And what about you, Shinsuke?  What was your life like before the wars?”

He can feel Takasugi tense against him and for a few long moments wonders if he’s gone and fucked up.  Then Takasugi snorts out a quiet laugh. 

“I was an aggravating little shit.”

 

The various life support machines hooked up to Takasugi’s frail frame are noisy, a constant chorus of beeps and whirrs that grate on Bansai’s already frayed nerves, but he refuses his headphones because he hopes beyond hope that Takasugi’s lips will move and he’ll speak something, anything. 

He’s made progress, slow as it may be.  If you hurt him he will open his glassy eye and flinch away, and Kijima swears that she’s heard him mumble incomprehensible words.  From time to time he’ll take Takasugi’s hand and squeeze, hard enough to get a response. 

 

A commotion in the hallway outside awakens him from an unsteady sleep, and a quick glance at the clock reveals it’s 2:30 before Kijima comes bursting into his room.

“Shinsuke-sama is awake!”

It takes a moment for the words to register in Bansai’s head as he sits up, staring at Matako through bleary eyes.  Chest heaving from running across the ship, bare-footed and clad only in her nightgown, there’s tears on her cheeks above a beaming smile. Bansai blinks.  “Awake?”

“Yes! Come on!”  She’s practically hauling him out of bed, snagging his robe off the hook on the wall and tossing it at him as she flies out of the room.  He abandons the robe and chases after her in only his pajama pants, feet pounding on the cold steel floor. 

There’s a gaggle of doctors and nurses at Takasugi’s bedside, a litany of voices carrying above the ever-present beeping and whirring of the machines.  Kijima stands hesitantly behind them, hands wringing anxiously.  Bansai stands beside her, looking down at the frail man in the bed over the shoulders of the doctors. 

Takasugi’s eye is open and bright, tracking the movements around him slowly.  He’s still a mess of tubes and IVs, but there’s an obvious lucidity in his face that makes Bansai’s heart feel a hundred times lighter.  That piercing green eye scans the faces around him and settles on Bansai.  A small, weak smile crosses his face.  His lips form a word, but his throat can’t yet make the sounds.

_Bansai._

“I’m here,” Bansai murmurs, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. Kijima and the doctors part to let him through to Takasugi’s side, and Takasugi slowly turns over his hand, curling his fingers invitingly.  Bansai takes his hand, squeezes hard.

Takasugi squeezes back.

 

His progress is slow, understandably, but Bansai is beside him every step of the way.  He’s the impromptu commander of the Kiheitai, ferrying Takasugi’s messages out of the hospital and out to the captains in the field, seeking out priority targets and dispatching them himself, helping the Kiheitai resume the actions of a well-oiled machine.  But in his free time he’s always, always with Takasugi.

It’s mostly at Takasugi’s insistence, though Bansai certainly would have done it anyway.  To Bansai’s surprise Takasugi is incredibly tolerant of the doctors and their constant fussing and scolding because he’s moving around too much, and eventually he must tire of being chided like a child because he becomes docile and obedient. 

 

Takasugi leans over and kisses him, softly, chastely.  Bansai smiles against his lips and raises a hand to stroke his master’s cheek, fingers brushing his unkempt hair behind his ear.  With a strained sigh Takasugi attempts to twist and pull himself onto Bansai’s lap as he deepens the kiss, but Bansai’s gentle hands press into his shoulders and push him back against the bed. 

“Now, now, Shinsuke, you’re in no condition,” he chides, aware he sounds like a mother but choosing to ignore it. 

An olive green eye narrows as Takasugi scowls.  “It’s been nearly five months,” he hisses, reaching out and grasping Bansai through his trousers.  “ _I want you to fuck me_.”

Sucking in a breath at the long-missed sensation of Takasugi’s touch, Bansai attempts to stand his ground.  “And have you pop a stitch and bleed to death on my cock?  I don’t think so.”  He smoothes his hand over Takasugi’s thigh, slipping beneath the flimsy fabric of the thin hospital yukata.  Takasugi almost _whimpers_ when Bansai’s fingers play over his hardening cock, and his back arches when those fingers finally curl around him. 

“Don’t tease me, Bansai,” Takasugi growls, but his hips push into Bansai’s hand and he’s biting his lip like he’s rather enjoying the teasing, so Bansai pushes down the bedrail and settles himself on the edge of the bed beside him.  It’s late enough that the nurse will only visit again in a couple of hours, so they have plenty of time to play around. 

Leaning forward to catch another quickly-deepened kiss, Bansai drinks up Takasugi’s breathy moans as his hand works slowly, slowly, massaging the hardened flesh and eliciting such delicious moans and whimpers from his lover.  His free hand has freed his own cock from the confines of his trousers, but it’s quickly batted away as Takasugi’s replaces it.  Bansai breaks their kiss and replaces his lips with his fingers. 

The relief that spreads on Takasugi’s face at the realization is almost comic, and Bansai would laugh if it weren’t for the way that pink tongue works over his fingers, the way Takasugi’s lips close around them and lather them with wet heat, the way his hand twists and squeezes on his aching cock. 

When Takasugi’s hips start to buck a little too fast, a little too erratic, Bansai lets go of him and withdraws his slick fingers.  Takasugi barely has time to register the touch at his asshole before two fingers are roughly shoved in, and he cries out, back arching at the aching pleasure that shoots up his spine.  They curl and twist within him, jamming against his prostate and making him bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.  His hand has stilled on Bansai’s cock, and his free one grasps his own cock and jerks roughly to Bansai’s relentless pace.  Bansai’s name spills from his lips, a low mantra as he throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut as his orgasm approaches quickly, too quickly, but he doesn’t care because Bansai is there and kissing him as he’s coming in his hand, body tensing and spasming around the digits twisting within him. 

His mind is fogged as Bansai’s fingers slip out of him, and he turns willingly under the musician’s hands as Bansai lays down beside him, pulling him close.  Through the haze he can feel Bansai’s hardness poking awkwardly at his stomach.

“Hey,” Takasugi mumbles, “you didn’t come.”

“It’s fine.”

“I want you to come in my mouth,” comes the reply, and Takasugi rolls onto his back, yanking at Bansai clumsily until he moves to straddle his shoulders.  It’s a bit of an awkward position but Takasugi’s fist is working over him briskly, with purpose, and Bansai has to grasp the headboard as he bends in pleasure.  Takasugi’s eye flickers up and meets Bansai’s two, and he smiles his wicked little smile but it’s somehow devoid of its usual poison, more serene and almost loving.  Bansai’s fingers tangle in his hair and pull his head forward as his breathing roughens, and Takasugi opens his mouth on cue. 

He swallows as much as falls on his tongue but a few ropey strands fall on his cheek and eye, and Bansai wipes them gently away with the pad of his thumb.  Careful not to jam a knee into Takasugi’s ribs, Bansai moves back to his side, pulling Takasugi back against him and kissing him lovingly. 

 


End file.
